Chapter 180
Chapter 180:
One month later.
The Charity Gala was the event of the season. Everyone was there to see who the new owner of Sterling Corp was.
Liam stood by the bar, drinking whiskey. He looked terrible—gaunt and unshaven. He was a ghost haunting his own life.
Seraphina was back at the manor, locked in her room, getting “larger” with pillows and lies.
The music stopped. A spotlight hit the top of the grand staircase.
Alistair Thorne appeared. He looked dangerous and dashing in a tuxedo. On his arm was a woman.
She wore a gold dress that shimmered like liquid metal. Her face was covered by an intricate Venetian mask, gold and black feathers obscuring her features. Her hair was lighter—a honey-blond wig styled in soft waves.
She walked with a predatory grace that silenced the room.
Liam’s glass slipped from his hand, shattering on the floor.
That walk. He knew that walk.
He pushed through the crowd, ignoring the whispers. He reached the bottom of the stairs just as they descended.
“Skye?” he breathed.
The woman stopped. She turned her masked face toward him. Her eyes were different—colored contacts, a piercing violet.
“I beg your pardon?” Her voice was husky, affected with a slight European accent. Not Skye’s voice.
Alistair stepped between them, a wall of muscle.
“Mr. Kensington,” Alistair said coldly. “You’re drunk. Step back p>
“It’s her,” Liam insisted, reaching for the mask. “I know it’s her p>
The woman laughed. It was a cold, unfamiliar sound.
𝘑oi𝗻 th𝘰u𝘴а𝘯𝖽𝗌 o𝗳 𝘳𝘦𝗮𝖽е𝗋𝗌 𝘰𝗇 𝖻e.c𝘰m
“My name is Ms. S,” she said. “I am the CEO of Oracle Holdings and the new owner of Sterling Corp. And you, Mr. Kensington, are trespassing in my breathing space p>
She leaned in, whispering in his ear.
“I hear you lost your wife. Careless p>
She pulled away, leaving Liam stunned and shaking.
From the shadows of the balcony, Arthur Sterling watched, fuming. He had lost his company to this mystery woman. He didn’t recognize his own daughter behind the mask.
Ms. S walked past Liam, her gold dress brushing against his leg.
“Enjoy the party, Liam,” she said, dropping the accent for just a fraction of a second.
Liam stared after her. He didn’t move. He couldn’t take his eyes off the woman in gold.
She wasn’t Skye. Skye was dead.
But this woman—this Ms. S—she was going to be his ruin.
Liam stood frozen in the center of the ballroom, the scent of Ms. S’s perfume—something cold and floral, like snowdrops—still clinging to the air.
Liam stood frozen in the center of the ballroom, the scent of Ms. S’s perfume—something cold and floral, like snowdrops—still clinging to the air. It was a scent that shouldn’t exist. It was a scent that belonged to a ghost.